


The Prophecy Crack'd from Side to Side

by GingerTodgers



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Accidental Cuddling, Attempted Kidnapping, Banter, Class Issues, Forgiveness, Hermione Granger is a Good Friend, Huddling For Warmth, Kissing, M/M, Prophecy, Severus Snape Lives, Sharing a Bed, Swearing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-25
Updated: 2018-05-25
Packaged: 2019-04-24 05:04:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,424
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14348526
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GingerTodgers/pseuds/GingerTodgers
Summary: Severus Snape discovers a prophecy designed to bring Voldemort back to life on Beltane, unless Draco, Harry and Hermione can let the past go and learn to forgive each other. Takes place in a small grubby flat with lots of banter and bed-sharing.





	The Prophecy Crack'd from Side to Side

**Author's Note:**

  * For [twistedmiracle](https://archiveofourown.org/users/twistedmiracle/gifts).



> A gift for the truly delightful (and ever accommodating) mod-above-mods, twistedmiracle! Thank you for being so patient with me throughout the fest, you are a true gift to fandom <3

The block of flats looked like it was held together by half-hearted sticking charms and luck that was about to run-out. A waft of urine floated down to meet them as they climbed the stairs. Breathing shallowly, Harry concentrated on putting one foot after the other. Mr Snape didn’t seem to be bothered by the smell. Tall, gaunt and greasy, he reminded Harry of a jolly Dementor, dancing ahead as Harry walked further and further into what could easily be a trap.

“Here we are.” They’d reached the fourth floor, stopped in front of a door that had scuff marks around the lock and a blue squiggle of spray paint across the peephole. The paint sparkled as Mr Snape passed his wand over it, fizzing as it started to move, spreading out to form a question mark. “Severus Snape,” said Mr Snape, gesturing for Harry to do the same.

“Harry.” The question mark stayed in place. “Er, Harry Potter.” With a shiver the question mark became two exclamation marks and the door swung open to reveal a dark hallway. The carpet was soft underfoot—Harry’s trainers sank into it as he followed Mr Snape into the flat. All the doors were closed, the only light coming from Mr Snape’s Lumos.

“This way, I believe.” Mr Snape stopped at the end of the corridor, choosing a door seemingly at random and pushing it open.

“Finally,” a sharp voice rang out, the owner blocked from Harry’s view by Mr Snape’s billowing cape. “Did you bring him?”

“Yes, yes.” Stepping further into the room, Mr Snape waved Harry forward. The room was surprisingly big; large windows stretched up to ceilings that must, surely, have an extension charm on them. Someone had charmed the view to match the view from Primrose Park at sunset—Harry recognised it from long walks with Hermione.

The owner of the sharp voice was a very pale man, only a few years older than Harry,sitting hunched in a plush, dove grey armchair that matched his eyes. The pale man blinked slowly.

“Potter.” The was something familiar about the way his prissy voice shaped Harry’s name.

“Alright?” Harry kept his hands in his pockets, his left-hand wrapped around his wand. Hermione’s note had said that Harry should trust Mr Snape. There’d been no mention of lanky twats. And this new man was a twat, Harry could feel it in the way his eyes were running over Harry, taking in the mud along the bottom of his jeans, the ratty JB Sports bag hooked over Harry’s shoulder.

“He really doesn’t remember?” the pale man asked Mr Snape. “Well,” he didn’t wait for an answer, unfolding from the armchair and coming over to stand in front of Harry. “My name is Draco Malfoy.” A long pale hand was extended.

“Harry Potter.” Harry shook Draco’s hand. It was warm, dry. There were callouses on the underside of Draco’s fingers, the same as the callouses Harry had.

Even though he was the one who initiated it, Draco pulled out of the hand shake as if he’d been burnt. “Take it off.” He turned to Mr Snape.

“Very well,” sighing as if his own wand had offended him, Mr Snape performed the incantation, sending a stream of green light to wind itself around Harry’s temples.

The memory charm fell away. Harry remembered.

 

-+-+-+-+-+-

 

**One month earlier**

Severus Snape was thinking about HobNobs when he found the prophecy. Specifically he was thinking about the packet of half-eaten HobNobs he had seen Griselda Grimshaw tucking behind the microwave in the Department of Mysteries staff room. A well-paid position on the Hall of Prophecy restoration project was a pipe-dream come true, even if the work itself was a tad... monotonous.

Sighing, Severus opened yet another cardboard box full of broken glass. In the aftermath of the scrimmage in the Department of Mysteries all the smashed prophecies had been swept up and packed away by the Ministry cleaning team. Now it was Severus’ privilege to paw through these boxes of glass and dust balls, in search of prophecies that could be either restored or recorded and then disposed of.

Despite dragonhide gloves reinforced with localised Protegos, it was dangerous work, and Severus really should not have been thinking about biscuits. Especially as he was fairly sure Griselda was using the HobNobs as bait for a cunning trap. The question of why Griselda appeared to be fixated on exposing Severus’ sweet-tooth to the rest of the Restoration Team was still to be puzzled out.

As a fellow Midlander, Severus might have hoped for some support from the Solihull-born witch: a shared smile when their teammates insisted on pronouncing the “s” in “issue”, a roll of the eyes when the department head started using his “Brummie” accent—small things that would have eased the strain of being “practically a Northerner, darling” in a group of Southern County Seers.

Griselda, however, had chosen to distance herself from Severus from day one, loudly calling attention to his curdled vowels and sweet-tooth. His ego insisted that she was clearly jealous of his academic achievements and tenure as the Headmaster of Hogwarts. In his darker moments, however, Severus knew that Grisdela’s dislike stemmed from the sad belief that distancing herself from her roots would somehow elevator her in the eyes of their colleagues.

Fat chance.

And speaking of fat, should Severus fall for Griselda’s ruse and treat himself to a mid-morning HobNob? This was what was occupying Severus’ mind when his gloved fingers brushed against a tiny prophecy, hardly bigger than a marble, and the room erupted into chaos.

Bright white light filled the small room and a deep, booming voice began to speak: “ _On Beltane night not more than five years since his vanquishment, the magical core of two who witnessed the Dark Lord's death—one pure of blood, one impure—shall be drunk by the agent of his death and the Dark Lord shall rise again.”_

Pressed to the wall by the volume of the prophecy, Severus scrambled for his wand, cursing himself for forgetting to wear the Ministry issue earplugs. All the intact prophecies were supposed to be catalogued already, but a few smaller ones had slipped through the initial sweep. Once the prophecy finished it fell back into the box it came from.

Silently giving thanks that he was the only one working at this early hour — Griselda wasn’t the only team member feeling the need to prove herself — Severus gingerly levitated the prophecy and walked it towards the staff room.

Later, sitting at the pock and pencil marked table, Severus replayed the words of the prophecy. A pure-blood and an impure-blood who had witnessed Voldemort’s death. Magical cores. Presumably, the prophecy was not referring to wand cores, unless the writer pictured Potter choking down a dragon heartstring and a hank of unicorn tail. Magical essence, then. The indefinable, intangible,  _stuff_ that all witches carry inside them. Impossible to extract without killing the subject, of course.

The obvious pure-blood candidate was Draco. Draco who, as the owner of the wand that killed Voldemort, could be expected to have a fairly robust magical core. As for the agent of Voldemort’s death, who else could it be but Potter? The size of the prophecy indicated that it had been cast fairly recently, probably within weeks of the Battle of Hogwarts.

Severus puzzled all this out as he absent-mindedly brushed biscuit crumbs from his robes and tried to avoid all thoughts of  _The Prophet._ Headlines about the attempted kidnapping of Hero Hermione Granger had dominated the Ministry atrium for weeks.

No matter how his heart protested the idea that any of the Muggleborn students present at the Battle could have a magical core strong enough to raise Voldemort, Severus reluctantly began to suspect that Granger’s kidnapping was no random attack. Especially when combined with the story tucked further inside the paper, on page 19 to be precise: a throw away reference to the attempted mugging of the Malfoy heir: Draco.

The thought of Draco caused Severus to drag both hands down his face, dislodging more crumbs as he did so. Lucius and Narcissa would never forgive him if he allowed their son to become embroiled in yet another Potter-centric palaver. The Malfoy parents had emigrated to the continent within days of Lucius’ discharge from Azkaban, nominating Severus to watch over Draco.

Sighing one last time, Severus bent forward in his chair and lightly tapped his forehead on the table.

Thud. Thud. Thud.

The muffled thumps filled the small room, followed by a small groan as he stood, sidestepped the still floating prophecy, and reached for a quill.

 _Archie_ , Severus wrote,  _I’ll be needing Mum’s flat for at least a month. Hope that’s alright with you and Dot. If yes, do you mind getting some shopping in? Bread, milk, tea, etc. And biscuits, going to need a lot of those. Ta-ra for now, Severus._

 

-+-+-+-+-+-

 

Harry found Hermione in the kitchen, once the memory charm had mostly evaporated. Stumbling out of the sitting room (“don’t follow me”), he had opened a door, thinking it would lead him out of the flat. Instead he found himself in a kitchen, watching a familiar figure struggle to open a packet of cheese slices.

“Fuck, I’m glad to see you,” he didn’t even give her time to turn around properly, just crushed her in a hug that pressed them both into the kitchen counter. The memory charm was making Harry’s memories of Snape and Malfoy a little hazy, but the fear he’d felt when reading Hermione’s note was still palpable.

_Harry, I’m safe but I need your help. Please trust the bearer of this note and let him take you to me. Love, Hermione._

The kitchen windows were charmed to show the view from the Gryffindor dormitories. The Great Lake sparkled in the distance. It was so small that when Harry stepped back to lean against the fridge, his and Hermione’s knees almost touched. “So this is where you’ve been then?” Harry reached out and kicked the toe of a trainer against one of Hermione’s Doc Martens. “Just hiding out at Snape’s, making a sandwich?”

“It’s not like that.” Hermione kicked back at Harry’s trainer, both arms wrapped around her waist. “The sandwich was for you. Memory Charms always make me hungry so...” She shrugged.

“You knew Snape was going to do a Memory Charm on me?”

“Yeah, it was kind of my idea.”

“Why?” A familiar pressure was starting to build behind Harry’s eyes. The shock of losing and regaining half of his memories in the space of an hour was wearing off. Magic sizzled at the tips of his fingers, causing the kitchen counter to buckle.

“It was the only way you’d go with him.”

“Right.” Harry pushed his glasses up and rubbed his eyes. The pressure was still there. “Because I don’t fucking trust him-”

“Harry—”

“No! You know he can’t be trusted. Why would you help him bring me here? And where is this?”

“I think it used to belong to Snape’s mum,” said Hermione, not quite answering his question. “You know I would have come if I could.”

“What was stopping you?”

“It wasn’t safe.”

“What, er—” Harry cleared his throat. “What do you mean?” He’d been so sure that they were done. The remaining Death Eaters were dead or incarcerated, fallen friends buried, former enemies forgiven. Well, some of them, he corrected himself, glancing back to the dark hallway where Snape and Malfoy were probably lurking.

“Severus told me—”

“‘Severus’? Bloody ‘Severus’?” Harry interrupted. “You know he had me call him ‘Mr Snape’?”

“Oh.” Hermione seemed to be biting the inside of her cheek, a small smile tugging at the corner of her mouth. “He didn’t tell me he was going to do that.”

“Right,” said Harry, crossing his arms. “So what did he tell you?”

“He said that the same men who tried to kidnap me last month had also tried to take Draco.” Hermione was back to business, flicking her wand to finish off the sandwich as she returned Harry’s stare. “He said that they’d try again and that I wasn’t safe in the house.”

“How did he know they were connected?” Harry tried to remember if he’d seen anything about an attempted Malfoy-snatching in  _The Prophet_. It didn’t ring any bells but, scrabbling through the memories previously obscured by the memory charm, Harry did recall weeks spent comforting Hermione. She’d escaped her own abductors but returned to the house the two of them shared with nightmares as a souvenir.

“I don’t know. He said he’d tell us — you, me and Draco — when you arrived.”

“Alright. Well, here I am.” Harry spread his arms, plastering on a manic smile. “Oi Snape.” He raised his voice. “It’s time for the grand reveal.”

“At least give him a chance,” Hermione murmured as their ex-Potions Professor swept into the kitchen.

“Ms Granger, Mr Potter.” Snape nodded at the two of them. “Would you care to join Mr Malfoy and myself in—”

“Here’s good,” Harry interrupted.

“Very well.” Snape nodded, shifting to allow Malfoy to squeeze past him. The kitchen was too small for them all but, having won what felt like a concession, Harry wasn’t going to suggest moving. Even if that did mean putting up with Malfoy pressing close as he settled awkwardly on the window ledge.

“Are you sure you don’t want this?” Hermione stage-whispered, brandishing the sandwich.

“Are you sure you don’t want to go back in time and not send a slimy git to steal my memories and kidnap me?” Harry stage-whispered back.

“If you are quite finished.” Snape kept his voice low, enjoying the way some Pavlovian response kicked in for the three ex-Hogwarts students as they snapped to attention. “I shall explain everything.”

 

-+-+-+-+-+-

 

It turned out that Snape’s idea of explaining ‘everything’ actually meant explaining nothing, badly. Hours later, squinting through the dark to see if the bedroom ceiling had any interesting cracks, Harry made a list of the things he did know.

After reading about Hermione and Malfoy’s separate kidnapping attempts in  _The Prophet_ and realising that they were connected, Snape had invited Hermione and Malfoy to hide out in the world’s grimmest flat. Then, somehow, it became clear that Harry was also a target. Rather than just tell him he was in danger, Snape, the cape swisher, Malfoy, the drama queen, and Hermione, the woman who once ranked being expelled as worse than death, had decided that they should kidnap Harry first.

“It wasn’t really kidnapping,” Hermione had protested. “We just knew you wouldn’t have gone with Severus if you remembered who he was, and we needed to make sure that you didn’t go running off to the Aurors.”

“Right, because involving the appropriate authorities is a terrible idea and definitely something I’m likely to do.”

“Excuse me,” said Malfoy. “Aren’t you an Auror?”

“No, I’m a trainee-instructor with the Auror academy.”

“Yes, yes.” Malfoy flopped his hand back-and-forth. “Auror, Shamuror, potato, potahto. The point, however, stands.” He fixed Harry with a beady eye.

“What is he talking about?” Harry asked Hermione.

“Aurors, Potter! You are one. Do you really expect us to believe that your first thought would not be to inform them that Granger, your friend and flatmate, was in trouble?”

“Well I don’t know! It doesn’t sound like me.” Harry scrubbed a hand through his hair. “Alright, maybe I would have suggested it. But what’s wrong with that?”

The thing that was wrong with telling the Aurors about the connection between their kidnappings was that Malfoy and Hermione didn’t want to. Following their attempted abductions, they’d both spent too long under the watchful eye of the Aurors to have retained any faith in magical law enforcement.

“I said I was going out to buy tampons for my girlfriend,” said Malfoy. “That’s all it took to give them the slip. I suppose I should be grateful that the kidnappers didn’t waltz up to the Manor, brandishing a packet of Kotex. They’d have been waved straight through.”

“I just got on a different bus than normal.” Hermione shrugged. “They only had three tracking charms on me. Can you imagine?”

Struggling to decide which scenario was less believable: that Malfoy would have a girlfriend (and be nice enough to run errands for her), or that the Aurors didn’t realise Hermione could neutralise tracking charms in seven different languages, Harry kept quiet.

Snape had made the connection between Hermione and Malfoy’s kidnappings while working to restore the Hall of Prophecies. Judging by the smug way Snape kept smiling, Harry got the impression that he was supposed to be impressed. Unfortunately, all Harry got from Snape’s rambling meditations was that they’d all been rather lucky.

“Luck does not enter into it,” Snape retorted when Harry voiced this thought.

“But you just found the prophecy in a random box,” Harry persisted, ignoring Hermione’s attempts to hush him.

To Harry’s surprise, the corner of Snape’s mouth twitched. “Very well,” he said, settling himself more comfortably in the only kitchen chair. “Let us discard this particular discussion and return to the matter at hand.”

 

-+-+-+-+-+-

 

This, Harry remembered, was when he genuinely thought someone was going to tell him what the bloody hell was going on. Instead, Snape and Hermione had immediately got into a prolonged discussion about how prophecies were formed before synthetic dragon’s blood was developed as a stabilising element.

Malfoy has joined in a bit, asking something about how Snape was able to conceal the prophecy long enough to sneak it out of the Ministry (“Cunning, Mr Malfoy. With great cunning.”) He then lapsed into silence, staring out of the window at the darkening evening sky.

After a while Snape got around to confirming the exact words of the prophecy he’d found (“by luck,” Harry’s throbbing brain insisted):

“ _On Beltane night, the magical core of two who witnessed the Dark Lord’s death_ —  _a pure-blood and a mudblood_ —  _shall be drunk by the agent of his death and the Dark Lord shall rise again.”_

“Etcetera, etcetera,” Snape finished, eyeing the three of them.

“Right then,” Harry swallowed. “Er. What do we do now?”

“That, Mr Potter, is up to you,” said Snape. “I can offer you guidance, however—”

“Alright,” Harry spoke quickly.

“I.” Snape blinked. “Y-you want me to advise you?”

“Yep, go ahead. What should we do?” Really, it was like Snape hadn’t just offered to help, the way he was blinking. It wasn’t exactly like they had many other options, unless lobbing the prophecy off the balcony had been considered. Probably not the best idea, Harry decided, what with not knowing how many other versions of the prophecy existed. He vaguely recalled Snape saying something about how most of the prophecies in the Hall had been duplicates. “Come on then.” he sighed. “Let’s have it.”

“Very well.” Snape blinked some more, composing himself with a shake of the head. “We must assume that the kidnappers have a duplicate of the prophecy and will be aware if we do manage to terminate it. However. As a mere two weeks from tomorrow will be the third Beltance since Voldemort’s death, I suggest the three of you remain here.”

“Wait out the prophecy, you mean?” Harry asked, nodding slowly. “Then the kidnappers will only have two more tries before it expires and—”

“No,” said Malfoy. “No, no. Absolutely not. I won’t do it. Waiting around, jumping at every noise.” His voice was rising. “I did quite enough of that during the war, thank you very much.”

“Draco’s right.” This time Hermione spoke. “Even if we do wait out the prophecy this year there will still be two more years of being hunted by the kidnappers.”

“Like the Forest of Dean,” said Harry.

“Exactly.” Hermione lifted her head, looked around at the three of them. “We’ve all done enough hiding and running, time for a new plan.”

“Er, ok,” said Harry, shooting Snape an apologetic look. “So. New plan, then. What have we got? And, more importantly, does anyone have any pain potion? That memory charm is doing my head in.”

 

-+-+-+-+-+-

 

The pain potion did nothing to stop the headache clawing at the front of Harry’s skull. As they talked into the evening, Hermione and Snape’s voices blended together, and Malfoy’s pale face watched Harry’s reflection. At some point Hermione had taken Harry by the arm, tutting “you’re dead on your feet”.

“Every day since the 2nd of May,” he’d croned to her, frowning when she didn’t smile back. “2nd of May 1998, to be proper.”

“Hmm, very proper.” She had wrapped his arm around her shoulders and led him back along the dark hallway into a cold bedroom. “You’re sharing with Draco,” he heard her say as she slipped off his trainers.

“What? No I’m not.” Harry protested, even as Hermione was helping him into the bed.

“We can talk about it tomorrow.” She said, tapping his glasses to remind him to take them off. “I’m nextdoor. It’s a single bed.” She held up a hand to forestall his protest. “There’s another bedroom down the hallway but it’s full of exercise equipment.”

“Really?” Harry was falling asleep. “Now m’going to have nightmares about Snape in leg warmers on a treadmill.”

“What a delightful image. Time to be unconscious now.” Gentle hands tucked the duvet around Harry and Hermione’s voice faded away.

Two hours later Harry jerked completely, horribly, awake. The bedroom was still cold, thin curtains bathing the room in an orange glow. Malfoy was lying next to him, breathing shallowly, his fingers twitching against the pillow. Letting out a small whimper, he arched his back slightly and rolled his head to the side as a stripe of orange illuminated his long throat.

The right thing to do would be to wake him up with swift kick to the shin. After a few moments Harry rolled over to stare at the wall, leaving Malfoy to whatever nightmare had him in it’s grip.

 

-+-+-+-+-+-

 

“Potter. Psst. Potter.” A bony finger lodged itself repeatedly in the soft flesh of Harry’s armpit. “Potter!”

“Whaahugng?” Harry rolled away from the finger.

“You were snoring.” Malfoy’s face loomed above Harry, pale and moonish in the most irritating way imaginable. It was still dark.

“What do you want?” said Harry, rubbing a hand over his face. “I don’t snore so—”

“Beg to differ,” Malfoy interrupted him. “I suppose I should thank you,” he continued, sitting up slightly. All the better to loom over Harry. “I never expected to hear the mating-call of the Snargaluff in the wild and yet you do a remarkable imitation.”

“Fuck off.” Harry pointed to a small dark squiggle near his right elbow, “This is an anti-snoring rune and you,” he pushed himself onto the elbow in question and pointed at Malfoy, “are full of shit. Why the fuck have you woken me up in the middle of the night?”

“Six am is hardly the middle—”

“Malfoy.” Harry sat up enough to fold his arms. Malfoy’s innocent expression melted into wavering uncertainty.

“I couldn’t sleep,” he said. “I thought you might want to work on things.”

“What things?”

“What things?” Malfoy’s mouth dropped slightly open. “Were you listening to anything other than the sound of your own righteous indignation last night?”

“Of course. Kidnappings, prophecies...” Harry was distracted looking for his glasses.

“Imbecile. I’m sharing a bed with a complete imbecile.” Malfoy sat back against the headboard, shaking his head.

“Oh fuck off,” said Harry. “My head was hurting from the memory charm and...” he trailed off as a silvery, translucent otter bounded through the door, swam around their heads, and settled at the foot of the bed.

“Harry, Draco,” the otter said in Hermione’s voice. “Some of us are trying to sleep.”

“Is that a Patronus?” asked Malfoy, staring at the otter.

“Yeah, it’s Hermione’s. She must have...” Harry forgot what he was going to say next when a second otter wiggled through the door and sat down next to the first otter.

“If you can’t sleep you can start working out how we’re going to break the prophecy,” said the second otter. Also in Hermione’s voice.

A third otter appeared.

“Counter charms to Beltane core magic usually involve the death of everyone involved.”

A fourth otter.

“So with this in mind, we should focus on transformation.”

A fifth otter.

“If we are no longer the people the prophecy mentioned, then the prophecy cannot be fulfilled.”

“This is revolting,” Malfoy breathed, far too close to Harry’s ear. “The amount of magic she is wasting on this is—”

Another whiskery face poked through the bedroom door.

“Alright that’s enough,” Harry pushed himself to his knees and pointed his wand at the watching otters. “Expectrum Patronum!” A stag erupted from the end of his wand, sending the otters scurrying off the bed. “Tell Hermione to calm the fuck down,” Harry said to the stag. He waited for it to gallop off before collapsing back onto the bed, one arm thrown over his eyes.

“What... I... Do you do that as well?” Malfoy was back to looming over Harry. “Casting Patroni willy-nilly?”

“Er, a bit.” Harry didn’t really know what else to say. He, Ron and Hermione  _did_ send a lot of Patronuses (“Patroni”, he corrected himself). Malfoy seemed a bit cross about it in a loud, happy way that made his pale cheeks flush and his eyes shine.

“Can you teach me how to do it? Cast one?” he asked.

“Sure,” said Harry, sitting up against the headboard and resigning himself to being lucid. “Right after I break the prophecy and get out of this shit hole.”

“Well,” Malfoy sniffed, retracting into himself and alerting Harry to the fact that they had been sitting rather close. “I suppose that bad temper and self-pity are to be expected. Some people might suggest that a little common courtesy wouldn’t be too much to expect among old school fellowes and bed mates, some might even say—”

“No. Asking someone to teach you one of the most complex pieces of defensive magic after waking them up at six-o-bloody-clock is a bit more than common courtesy.” Harry heard his own voice rising. “We are not “old school fellowes”, we are old school enemies and we are not bed mates, we are just sharing a bed so-”

“Harry.” Hermione was standing in the doorway, a silk scarf wrapped around her head. “Shut up. Shut up right now. Or at least keep your voice down.”

“He started it.”

“I do not give a frigging fuck,” said Hermione, hand tightening on her wand. “Talk about the prophecy or not at all, otherwise I’m telling Ron that you called Severus ‘Mr Snape.’” Turning on her heel, she disappeared. Harry gaped at the empty doorway. It had been a while since he’d seen Hermione so worked up.

“Um.” He turned to look at Malfoy, who was staring uneasily at the door.

“Do you think she’ll come back?”

“No, Hermione’s moods tend to burn out pretty quickly,” said Harry. “Still, we should probably do what she said.”

“Right.” Draco nodded a few times. “Of course. She’s right, of course. Transformation.” he cleared his throat, visibly gathering up his composure and smoothing it over the anxious lines covering his forehead. “We should focus our efforts on no longer being recognisable as the subjects of the prophecy.”

“Will that really work?” Harry was rather surprised at how mild his question sounded. He was still fuming. His head hurt and the blood in his chest felt like it was swishing back-and-forth at an alarming speed.

“Not for a well-established prophecy,” said Malfoy. “But the prophecy Snape found is fairly new.”

“So it’s weaker, then.”

“Obviously. Honestly, Potter. Did you learn anything at—”

“Stop right there.” Harry held up a hand. Malfoy’s mouth snapped shut. “The way this works is that we talk about the problem until something clicks. That includes asking stupid questions.”

“Well, with Weasley involved in your escapades I can see why that became a habit,” said Malfoy. “However, as neither of us is a complete imbecile would it be possible to skip the First Year Charms class?”

“Ron isn’t an imbecile,” Harry said, sternly ignoring the fact that Malfoy had kind of, sort of, complimented him. “Covering old ground means that nothing gets missed.”

“Are you honestly telling me that everytime the Dark— Voldemort made an attempt on your life the three of you trooped off to the library and rehashed all the old lore?” Malfoy’s face seemed to be stuck between disbelief and a kind of gleeful horror.

“We were kids,” said Harry. “School kids!” He watched in amusement as Malfoy gapped. “And we had Hermione. Play to your strengths, yeah?”

“Yeah, ahem— I mean, yes.” Malfoy was shaking his head, a small smile pushing curves into his sharp cheeks. “Very well. Let us go over what we know so far. We need to achieve a transformation.” he waited for Harry’s confirmation.

“Er, yes.”

“Just so. This transformation must presumably be permanent, otherwise the prophecy would be too easily broken.”

“Yeah.” Harry nodded along, wistfully thinking how much easier all their lives would be if he could just transform Malfoy into a ferret and have it done.

“Investigating the possibilities of obtaining our Animagus form should be a priority, however, before you arrived Professor Snape, myself, and Hermione, we, ah, we...” Malfoy trailed off, his neck going a splotchy pink.

“What?”

“We rather thought that the best way to break the prophecy might be if we were all to forgive each other,” Malfoy spoke in a rush.

“Forgive...”

“Each other, yes.”

“That’s what you came up with?”

“Yes, forgiveness.”

“That’s it? That’s the grand plan?” said Harry. “We sit around here holding hands.” He watched as Malfoy tucked his own hands primly beneath the duvet. “And making friendship bracelets in the hope that it will stop the kidnappers from rooting around in our magical cores?” It was the worst plan he’d ever heard and, judging from Malfoy’s pained glance at the ceiling, Harry wasn’t the only one who thought it was crap. “Will that even be enough of a transformation? And how will they know we’ve changed?”

“They don’t need to know, the act of forgiveness and relinquishment of anger is a transformative act,” said Malfoy, he sounded like Hermione.

“Are you just copying Hermione?”

“No.” Malfoy spoke through gritted teeth. “I am simply relaying information that we  _both_ gleaned from Practical Prophecies for the Perplexed Pizard.”

“Pizard?”

“I believe the book was published during a time when alliterative titles were proving rather popular,” Malfoy waved off Harry’s incredulous look. “The point is that prophecies are, essentially, rituals. Rituals that must follow a certain number of steps, in a certain order, to be effective. If our magical cores have changed due to our…” he paused. “Our ability to…”

“Forgive each other? See you can’t even say it! How are we meant to-”

“Oh stuff it, Potter. Once we have forgiven each other our magical cores will no longer be recognisable, the first step in the ritual will no longer be possible, and the prophecy will melt away.”

“But there must be something better than this. What if we went and found the kidnappers? We could trick them into thinking we want to take part in the ritual and then—-”

“Please be less idiotic,” Malfoy interrupted Harry.

It was Harry’s turn to go slack-jawed. And then...

“Yeah. Yeah alright, fair point.” It really was very, very early. Slipping his fingers behind his glasses to rub his eyes, Harry contemplated the merits of calling it all a bad job and just continuing to push his fingers into his eye sockets until they found brain. “Forgiveness, then,” he said, keeping his eyes closed for a precious few seconds more. “Until we come up with a better plan. How do we do this?”

“Well.” Malfoy looked a little unsure of Harry’s abrupt change in demeanor. He was also covered in big black spots, but that was probably Harry pressing too hard on his own eyeballs. “I suppose we could start with the way in which you allowed the groundskeeper’s horrible horse-bird to maul me in Third Year.”

“Buckbeak? Are you serious?”

“Oh, absolutely,” said Malfoy, smiling in a rather frightening way. “In fact,” he reached over the side of the bed to grab two sheets of paper, keeping his eyes fixed on Harry the whole time, “I have rather an extensive list of grievances for us to work through.”

 

-+-+-+-+-+-

 

The next few days passed in a whirlwind of bad temper and bad sandwiches. After Harry had refused to discuss Malfoy’s mauling (“stop calling it that you make it sound like Buckbeak started rubbing up against you on the bus”), they had spent the rest of the morning arguing about Hagrid’s teaching qualifications while Snape looked out the window and Hermione did a crossword.

“A fondness for dangerous creatures is hardly a legitimate qualification, Potter.”

“Neither is being a posh twit who lies out of his arse,” Harry snapped. “But I didn’t notice you complaining when Lockhart was made DADA Professor.”

“What?” Malfoy looked startled. “I complained about him all the time.”

“Did you?” asked Harry, trying to remember if he had heard Malfoy complaining specifically about Lockhart—-he’d definitely been complaining about everything else.

“Yes! I started a petition to get him fired. The man was a menace.”

“Huh, wish I’d known. I’d have signed it.”

“You did sign it,” Hermione spoke, head still bent over the crossword. “Twice.”

The argument had petered out after that. Although Malfoy kept shaking his head and muttering about how long it took him to collect signatures. A plate of dry tuna and mayo sandwiches later and they’d moved on to debating hotly whether Malfoy had stolen Neville’s Remembrall or been the victim of a fix-up.

“I tell you I was framed,” Malfoy insisted as he and Harry did the washing and Hermione and Snape read in the living room. Despite “the transformative power of forgiveness,” they had all agreed to leave personal growth on the back-burner and focus on ways to speed up the Animagus charm. Harry knew that he was happier with any arrangement that passed the research onto someone else, but he was a bit surprised that Malfoy had agreed to do the dishes.

“Framed by whom?” asked Harry, wondering if he should crack a window to let the tuna smell out.

“You wouldn’t believe me.”

“I might. Come on... Draco.” Hermione had been very insistent that they start calling each other by their first names or, in Snape’s case, Professor. This discussion had been followed by pointed throat clearing every time surnames were used. When that only caused them to talk louder, Hermione’d charmed all the sofa cushions to deliver a Stinging Hex whenever anyone seated upon one said ‘Potter’, ‘Malfoy’, ‘Scarhead’, ‘Ferret’, ‘Weaselette’, ‘parents’, ‘cheated’ or ‘badges’.

“Tell me who framed you.” Harry asked again, wincing as a phantom hex shot through his left arsecheek.

With a sigh, Draco lifted a soapy hand to beckon Harry closer.

“Voldemort,” he whispered, whipping a handful of suds into Harry’s face.

“What the fuck,” Harry spluttered through the washing up bubbles, glaring as Draco cackled.

 

-+-+-+-+-+-

 

Harry and Draco continued sharing a bed, despite the fact that Snape wasn’t even sleeping in the flat and there was a perfectly good sofa going.

“Why don’t you clear out the spare bedroom then?” asked Hermione. They were sitting in the living room, balancing a book the size and weight of a generous tombstone across their legs. Harry was fairly sure that his primary function was to act as unreliable, slightly sweaty furniture, but it was nice to spend time with Hermione, just the two of them.

It had taken twelve meals of nothing but sandwiches for Draco to claim he had an allergy to Hellmann's salad cream and insist that Snape teach him how to use the microwave. The two of them were in the kitchen, wrapping the microwave in magic-repelling charms, while Hermione and Harry looked for a way to speed up the Animagus charm.

“Well?” Hermione was looking at Harry, a chocolatey thumb holding her place on the page.

“Should you be doing that?” he asked, nodding to her impromptu bookmark.

“Hmm? Oh, nothing a bit of Scourify won’t fix.” She sucked the thumb into her mouth. It was much less distracting than when Draco sucked salad cream off his thumb, which was yet another reason Hermione was Harry’s best mate and Draco was a twattish twat. “Well? Are you going to clear out the spare room?”

“Not really much point, is there?” Harry stretched his arms above his head, joggling the book.

“So you’re going to sleep on the sofa, then?”

“Pfft, no. Why should I sleep on the sofa?” Harry raised his voice to reach the kitchen. “Draco can sleep on the sofa.”

“Oh fuck you, Potter,” said Draco, appearing in the kitchen doorway. “I have absolutely no intention of giving up  _my_ bed.” Harry grinned at the laughter in Draco’s voice.

“Fine,” he said.

“Yes,” Draco smiled back at Harry. “It is. Fine.”

“Fine.”

“As I said, fine.”

“Fine th—”

“Spare us.” Snape appeared behind Draco. “Ms Granger, have you made any progress on the Animagus Potion?”

“Just a bit,” answered Hermione. “It turns out that we can speed up the process of transforming if we brew a potion with concentrated mandrake as a base, rather than that nonsense with the leaves. The problem is that the concentrated version limits the number of forms we can take.”

“Really?” Snape brushed past Draco and took the only comfortable armchair. “Fascinating. I presume that the forms are limited to cold-blooded animals?”

“I think so too.” Hermione pushed the book completely onto Harry’s lap. The book grazed some rather cital equipment and Harry looked up to see Draco wince in sympathy. “The question is whether restricting the forms we can take would limit the potency of the transformation.”

“Just a minute,” said Harry. “Cold-blooded, so fish and reptiles?” He waited for nods of confirmation from Snape and Hermione “So you’re saying there’s a chance that we brew the potion, do the charm, and one of us ends up as a Blue Whale?”

The others froze.

“Tail out the window, head busting through the wall into the hallway, panicking too much to change back.” Harry was starting to enjoy himself. “Or maybe we’ll be really lucky and get an animal that can’t survive out of water. Three sardines flopping around on the floor while Snape runs off to look for a bucket. I hope you’ve got salt water handy.”

Hermione’s mouth opened, and then closed.

“Right then,” Harry continued. “Plan B, forgiveness. How are we going to do this?”

 

-+-+-+-+-+-

 

As the only person who wasn’t involved in the prophecy, Snape had suggested he play the role of Forgiveness Facilitator. Unfortunately, he was about as good at teaching forgiveness as he was at teaching potions.

“I’m just saying,” Harry whispered, “This is a man who created a spell “for use on enemies”, yeah? Are we sure he’s the best person for this forgiveness gig?”

“For enemies?” Hermione said a bit too loudly—Snape was only in the loo and he had ears to match his bat-like wardrobe.

“Shhh! You know, the, erm—” Harry glanced at Draco. Draco blinked back at him. “The spell I used on Malfoy.”

“I’m Malfoy, now?” Draco asked, Malfoyishly.

“Sorry, er, Draco. When I think about that night you sort of turn into Malfoy, again.” Harry hadn’t realised he felt that way but as he spoke he knew it was the truth.

“Why?” said Draco.

“Um, guess I feel a bit like that was Malfoy, you know?”

“Not even slightly.”

“Fucks sake, alright. It’s like now I know you as Draco, you know? But back then you were Malfoy, so it’s like that happened to Malfoy, yeah?”

“Are you saying you wouldn’t want to hurt Draco now, Harry?” said Hermione.

“I didn’t want to hurt him then; I didn’t know what the spell did. I really didn’t,” Harry turned to Draco. “You know that, right?”

“I do.” Draco’s eyes were a bit glassy and he was blinking a lot. “I didn’t want to hurt you either, not properly.”

“I know, I—”

“Progress,” Snape announced, sweeping into the living room. “Has occurred. The prophecy has a small, hairline crack.” He held up the prophecy to show them. Harry couldn’t really see any difference. “I believe we must attribute this success to the trust exercises,” Snape continued, swishing back and forth in front of the TV. “How many of them did you complete while I was gone?”

Hermione, Harry and Draco sat on the sofa, blinking up at Snape and slowly realising that yes, they were supposed to have been closing their eyes and falling back into each other's arms. Not arguing about whether their Forgiveness Facilitator was a sociopath.

“Er,” said Harry.

“Seventeen,” Draco spoke. “We did seventeen, my lucky number.” He turned to smile at Harry and Hermione, neither of whom smiled back.

“Are you sure it was seventeen, Draco?” Harry asked. “And not maybe three or some number that’s easier to repeat?”

“Oh, um...” Draco blinked.

“Seventeen,” said Snape, smiling like a Venus Flytrap. “Let us see if we can replicate this success. Ms Granger, perhaps you and Draco can start.”

 

-+-+-+-+-+-

 

While an afternoon of pointless trust exercises may have dented Hermione’s ego and head, they did not impede her love of learning. Specifically, learning how to be a better person than Draco and Harry.

“You’re just showing off now,” said Harry. Four days had passed since they’d decided to focus on forgiveness. Harry had spent most of the time arguing with Draco about whether dressing up as a Dementor really counted as a Quidditch foul. Hermione, meanwhile, had been busy having quiet chats with Snape, tearfully hugging Draco, working through her childhood traumas and asking Harry annoying questions like “don’t you feel a bit sorry for Draco? Trapped in that house with Voldemort, hostage to his father’s ambition?”

“I’m not showing off,” Hermione insisted. “I do really feel sorry for him. He told me that Bellatrix Lestrange used to make him pour Voldemort’s tea.”

“Oh no. How dreadful. Thank god the rest of us only had Voldemort torturing and murdering us.”

“No, no.” Hermione swatted Harry, although he could tell she was trying not to laugh. “Be serious. She used to make him do it because Voldemort  _liked_ having Draco wait on him.”

“What?” something hard and cold settled in Harry’s chest.

“Yes, the magic of the Manor protected Draco from anything... you know,” Hermione pulled a face, eyes darting to the bedroom where Draco was having a rage nap. “But that didn’t mean Voldemort couldn’t keep him close. Draco said that—”

“I don’t want to know.” Harry stood, wishing he’d volunteered to go with Snape to the chippy. “Talk about something else.”

“What? Hermione was still sitting on the floor, staring up at him. “Are you alright?”

“Fine.” Harry ran a hand through his hair. Why was the flat so fucking small, like it had been built to punish the people who lived there? “I’m going to lie down,” he declared, marching into the bedroom.

Draco was asleep on the bed and Harry spent a few minutes glaring at him before lying down. Squeezing his eyes shut, Harry focused on pushing every thought out of his head.

 

-+-+-+-+-+-

 

When Harry woke again it was dawn. The London traffic was starting to rev as the orange light pollution faded into grey sky. Blinking, Harry realised he still had his glasses on. The bridge of his nose hurt, and his right temple throbbed where the arm of the glasses had dug in.

“Do you always sleep in your glasses?” Draco was awake, propped up on one arm and...

“Are you wearing my hoodie?” Harry asked.

“Oh.” Draco’s cheeks flushed as he looked down. “Yes, it was on the floor.”

“So you just put it on?” Harry’s sleep-smudged brain made his question come out sounding soft and curious, rather than the barked interrogation he was aiming for.

“It’s cold. There aren’t any heating charms.” Draco’s voice was muffled as he pulled the hoodie off, revealing a wrinkled grey shirt underneath. “Here.” he thrust the hoodie at Harry.

“Thanks.” Harry didn’t really want to put the hoodie back on. He rolled it up and stuck it behind the pillow, propping himself up to examine the room. “If I ask you a question,” he said, “Will you give me a proper answer? Without being a dick about it?”

“What’s the question?” Draco had pulled the duvet up almost to his chin. It made him look younger.

“Should I have tried to save you? Would that have made a difference? You know,” Harry rushed on, “In fifth year, if I’d tried to talk to you about stuff would that have... have...” his voice disappeared, lost in the quiet room.

“Um.” Draco blinked, rubbed his left eye. “I suppose it might have been helpful. Um, why didn’t you help Theo?”

“What?”

“Theo Nott, a Slytherin in our year. His father was a Death Eater, did some horrible things. A few of them on my family’s dining room table.” Draco’s eyes drifted a few inches above Harry’s head. “Why didn’t you try to save him?”

“I... I don’t know. I didn’t know him,” Harry corrected himself, hoping that this wasn’t the start of another of Draco’s lists.

“Exactly. You didn’t know him, and you didn’t know me.” Draco sat up against the headboard, his hip pressing briefly against Harry.

“What do you mean?”

“You didn’t know me, Potter.” Draco jerked the duvet over his knees and back up to under his chin. “You were one boy, trying to keep himself and his friends alive, why should you be responsible for the entire castle?”

“Right.” There wasn’t any way to explain that Draco, that Malfoy, has always felt different, been different. Thinking of it in those terms made Harry shiver and reach for his hoodie.

“You know,” Draco said. “One of the ways Muggles keep warm is to hurdle together. We could,” his eyes darted over to Harry. “We could do that.”

“Um, I think it’s actually ‘huddle together’.” Judging by the way Draco shrank back against the headboard, that was very much the wrong thing to say. “I mean, if we’re going to do it we should call it by the right name.” Harry hurried on, reaching forward and pulling the duvet away from Draco. “Come on.” he wiggled down onto his back, holding the duvet open for Draco to follow suit.

A beat of silence and then Draco rolled his eyes, huffing in manner that implied no man had ever been more put-upon than Draco Lucius Malfoy. Sliding down onto his back, he turned to Harry and raised an eyebrow. Harry let the duvet cover them, but there was still a foot of space between them in the bed, and Draco’s eyebrow was right, it wasn’t exactly cosy.

“Here, let me just...” Harry reached over and tugged at Draco’s shoulder until he was lying on his side, facing Harry. “This was your suggestion,” Harry huffed as he lifted Draco’s limp left arm and wrapped it around his own waist. The change in position brought their faces too close together. Harry could feel Draco’s breath against his chin.

“I don’t... this wasn’t what I envisaged,” said Draco, his eyes drifting across Harry’s face. “Um...” He lifted his left hand and pressed against Harry’s left shoulder. “I’m not pushing you away,” he insisted, apparently seeing something uneasy on Harry’s face. “Just, let me... There.” When Draco finished they were both lying on their right sides, with Harry’s back pressed up against Draco’s chest. Draco’s arm was heavy around Harry’s waist and his nose was in Harry’s hair.

“Is this okay?” Harry asked, feeling like he was about to vibrate out of his skin.

“Shh.”Iincredibly, Draco sounded like he was already drifting back to sleep. “Don’t make it weird... Potter.”

“Pfft, fine.” Harry tried to keep the smile off his face. It didn’t work. He carried on smiling for the next twenty minutes, until the warmth of Draco’s body and the early hour lulled him back to sleep.

 

-+-+-+-+-+-

 

Harry woke to find Snape looming over him.

“Mr Potter.”

“Hughh, Profezzer Snape?” Clearing his throat, Harry tried to sit up. “Wazzamatta?”

“It seems my trust exercises have paid dividends, Mr Potter; the prophecy...” Snape paused, smiling like the murderer a tiny part of Harry still suspected he was, “Has been terminated.”

“Oh.” Harry finally managed to sit up. His sleep-soaked mind was still confused about what Snape was doing lurking in his bedroom—well, his and Draco’s bedroom. The thought made him glance over to Draco’s side of the bed. Empty. “Where’s Draco?”

“Draco and Ms Granger have already left. I found them in the kitchen and imparted the good news.”

“And they just left?”

“Hmm? Yes. Ms Granger asks that you meet her and one of the Weasleys at the Giggling Gryffindor for brunch.” Snape managed to make bunch sound like simultaneously the most depraved and tedious act he had ever heard of.

“What about Draco?” Harry was still bleary with sleep. He watched in confusion as Snape shrugged and picked his way over to the window, throwing it open in the manner of a man performing an exorcism. “Um.” Harry stood, Accioing the rest of his clothes. “I’ll just... go... then.” He inched towards the door. “Er...”

“Yes?” Snape was now sending a volley of cleaning spells whizzing around the room. It would be rather offensive, if the room hadn’t been occupied for three weeks by a pair of wizards with only two pairs boxers shorts between them.

“Thanks, for, um. You know. Saving our lives.”

“Oh,” Snape was back to the blinking. “Well. Thank you for accepting my counsel. It was... tolerable.”

“Right, thanks for giving it.” Snape had had some good ideas, even if his forgiveness plan had ended up with Harry sharing a bed with a pointy git who just fucked off the next day without even leaving a note. “See you, then. Round The Ministry, maybe. Now I know you’re working there. We’ve always got a cake on the go in the Auror corridor. You should come over.”

“Goodbye, Mr Potter.” Snape’s mask was back in place, although his cleaning charms seemed to fizz and sing a little louder.

“Yeah, bye,” Harry stumbled out of the room. He was out the flat and halfway down the stairs before he realised that he was smiling.

 

-+-+-+-+-+-

 

Draco did not call Harry. And, as Hermione was forever pointing out, Harry did not call Draco.

“I don’t want to go where I’m not wanted,” Harry insisted, stirring his tea until it sloshed over the sides of the mug.

“You are wanted,” said Hermione, reaching past Harry to grab the biscuits. She was going for the posh ones, he noted.

“You don’t know that.”

“Yes, I do.” She slammed the plate of biscuits down on the table. Harry knew why he was taking his bad temper out on their crockery, but what had got Hermione going? Unless...

“Tell me you didn’t.” He stared at her in horror. “Is he coming here?”

“It’s Beltane.” Hermione avoided his eyes. “It’s Beltane and we’re not being dragged into some horrible murderous prophecy and we’re alive and just because you have the emotional range of a teaspoon-”

“You’ve already used that one.”

“And I stand by it! I want to have fun, ok? I want to go out drinking with our friends and I want to make out with Ron, my boyfriend, remember? Who I didn’t see for weeks because I was stuck in that flat playing emotional midwife for you and Draco. And I want-” she raised her voice to speak over Harry’s protest, “to be able to do all that without you looking miserable. Draco is coming over. We are going to talk this out.”

With that she grabbed her parka from behind the kitchen door, snarling “Hello” at a startled Draco who was just coming up the garden steps. “I’m getting Luna to act as a mediator,” Hermione called over her shoulder. “She’ll sort you out.”

The door slammed with Hermione on the outside and Draco on the inside.

“Shit,” Harry sighed, burying his face in his hands.

“Hello to you, too,” said Draco. “She, ah, she wasn’t being serious about fetching Luna?”

“Afraid so.” Harry scrubbed his hands back and forth across his face. Fuck. From the ten seconds he’d seen of Draco he was looking just as pointy as ever. Pointy in that smug, posh boy way that set Harry’s teeth on edge. Although, his teeth seemed to be slacking recently as they were no longer on edge so much as mildly clenched. Other bits of him were proving to be dangerously alert but—

“Um, are you, ah—” Harry finally looked up to see that Draco was standing much closer and doing a weird little patting thing to Harry’s shoulder. “Are you having some kind of... episode?” Draco’s face was screwed up into a concerned pout. “Because you don’t seem especially concerned that Hermione is in the process of fetching Luna to “sort you out.””

“Sort us out,” Harry sighed, leaning back slightly against the counter.

“Beg pardon?”

“Hermione thinks that we have unfinished business. You and me.”

“And she’s getting Luna because...”

“Because Luna is sweetly terrifying and will probably terrorise us into being friends.”

“Oh.” Draco’s eyes unfocused. He licked his lips. “Is that what Hermione wants?”

“Yes.”

“Is that... Is that what you want?”

“Er...”

“Quickly, Potter. Let’s at least try to, er, sort this out without Lovegood breathing down our necks.”

“Oh, okay.” Harry nodded, took a deep breath. “Yeah, good point. Okay. I do want us to be friends.” A thrill shot through him as he watched Draco’s face fall slightly. “But, er, when I woke up and you were gone, on the last morning, I felt a bit empty? Maybe?”

“You did?” Draco’s eyes snapped back to Harry’s.

“Yes. It would have been nice if you were there.”

“As a friend?”

“Or more.”

The whispered words seemed to scream through the kitchen. Draco was staring at Harry like he was a complete idiot, eyes darting back and forth.

“More as in...”

“Alright, enough questions about me,” Harry glanced at the clock. “If I know Hermione we’ve got max three minutes until they’re back, so tell me. What do you want?”

“You.”

“Because I feel like maybe now we’re past all that school nonsense things could be alright between us, yeah? I know we don’t know each other all that well but—”

“Harry, I want you.” Draco moved closer, a small, hopeful smile on his face.

“Yeah I want you too but I’m a bit pressed for time here.” Harry lifted his hand to rub the back of his neck, only for Draco to catch hold of it. “We need to get this sorted before—”

“Harry.” Draco bent forward, his breath hot against Harry’s cheek. “I’m going to kiss you and I think you will find it a lot easier to kiss me back or— or— or punch me, or whatever you wish to do, if you are no longer babbling.”

“Oh, that’s... okay.” Harry tipped his face up slightly, brushing his lips against Draco’s. “S’good,” he murmured, thrilling at the way Draco sighed against his mouth. “Do you want to, um...”

“Yes.” Draco pressed forward to kiss Harry properly. “Fuck, yes.” Draco’s free hand crept into Harry’s hair, pulling lightly at his curls. Soft sighs filled the kitchen, the soft, wet press of lips and tongues and if Draco kept slowly moving his hips like that Harry was going to explode.

“They’re in here,” Hermione’s voice cut through the delicious haze. “Hopefully you can talk some sense into them and— Oh fuck, okay.” Something fell over, and a muffled giggle reached Harry. “In the front room, I think,” Harry heard Hermione say. He really was going to open his eyes, any moment now. “Right this way.” Followed by the sound of Hermione and Luna scurrying past.

“See you later Harry,” Luna called. Raising a hand. Harry squeezed his eyes shut and pressed closer, closer to Draco. He’d worry about the glee in Luna’s voice later.

**Author's Note:**

> This fic would not have gone beyond 1k if it wasn't for my wonderful cheereader and best-of-betas, frnklymrshnkly. Not only did they manage to hold my hand all the way through, while modding the amazing HD Consent Fest, but they also contributed some of the best lines in this fic.
> 
> The prophecy? All frnkly. Snape's sniffy "it was... tolerable"? Frnkly, again. Harry telling Snape and Hermione that he hopes they've got salt water handy for when his Animagus turns out to be a sardine? Three cheers for frnklymrshnkly!


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